Object of Inspiration

I think of my years, as slowly as they passed, seem to be as short as the summer. Such as the summer of my first hosting. I never know what it was like, to speak to a foreigner, who spoke bad English, just as I spoke bad Japanese.  But we managed, speaking slowly and in small sentences. Their names were Miyu and Sumire. They became my first friends outside of my home country. I showed them my home and culture, even feeding them biscuits and gravy, which I’m sure they didn’t like at all, although they told me they liked it. Accidentally giving them hot tea that was too sweet for them.

Showing them my room, which was covered wall to wall in anime posters, which I am now embarrassed that they have seen such a horror. I have grown since then, evening out my space with more traditional Japan. We watched a Disney movie, Tangled, and learned that Miyu likes Disney, so we had an unspoken connection, the one where girls can look at each other, and know exactly what the other was thinking.  Going bowling afterwards, with me being in first place for once, but against girls who never played before and could barely speak.

The day soon ended, and we went to the farewell party days later. We all cried. My face, paler than my new friends’, was bright red and splochy, eyes puffy and wet, I told them in my broken Japanese to not cry, and that we would see each other again. But not for a long time. After they left, we kept in touch. We would text each other a lot, catching each other when we were both awake. They would use Japanese, and I would try to catch up. But I improved the most out of all of us, learning new words every day. The years passed, and I collected more items from Japan. Items given to me from hosting, and those I bought myself, from my trip to Japan.

I had stayed with Sumire when I visited, and even got to see Miyu as well. In my room, years later from our first meeting, my room has gained more color. My lucky cat sits on my desk, paw waving back and forth continuously, my paper umbrella tucked away in a corner, the many Japanese books I bought sit on my bookshelf. But hung up on my book shelf, is the hat they gave me. That green hat that reads Yotsuba Gakuen, the words next to the signature four leaf green clover. That hat was the first piece of Isesaki for me. I would collect many more hats, signed by more and more people, making memories. But that specific hat will hang higher than the others, and I will remember the first day I met Miyu and Sumire.